Ruby Ruins

knuckles and his habit of popping them, stumbled out. He wore a gambeson, his binder hanging from a leather belt. He had a backsword on the other hip. His bulbous nose had lost its usual redness. His eyes were distant. He ran a hand through graying hair.
“How is she?” he asked Ōbhin, stumbling, almost drunk.
“Dualayn’s trying something he learned from the Recorder.”
“She can’t die,” Fingers croaked. “She’s so young. Twenty . . . She should be married. Have her first babe sucklin’ at her teat, not . . .” His eyes flicked to Ōbhin. “What were you two doin’? You rushed outta here like you were marchin’ to battle. Now she’s got a length of sword stuck in her head.”
“Looking up an old friend,” said Ōbhin. “Trying to figure out what happened to Carstin’s body.”
“Thought that damned sorcerer got it. The one who turned your ol’ bandit leader into a monster.”
Ōbhin shuddered at the memory of Dje’awsa. A foreign sorcerer with strange tattoos like jagged lightning bolts wrapped around his shaved head. He served the White Lady, as dark as she was bright. He used jewels in a way that could only be called magic. Right out of campfire tales. He’d turned the dead into shambling corpses and transformed Ust into a brute with inhuman strength and speed.
Dje’awsa used obsidian. The eighth gem. The one different from the others, brittle and birthed in violence. The gem associated with Niszeh and disharmony. They were forbidden to be used in civilized lands.
“Maybe,” Ōbhin said. “I don’t know. I wanted answers and now . . .” Now he stood motionless. His Avena was lying in there, maybe dying, and all he did was nothing. He had sworn to protect Dualayn and his people.
Protect her? He’d led her right into the fray.
“She wouldn’t have stayed back,” Fingers said. “Too stubborn by half.”
Nearby, the skinny Bran lurked. He was the youngest of the guards, the youngest son of Joayne. He was gangly and his face pale. He was off-duty, wearing the red jacket he’d won while gambling at the Plucked Rooster. “She gonna be fine?”
“She’s strong,” grunted Fingers. “You go tell everyone that. Dualayn’s got her in hand. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”
Bran nodded and darted off.
“What are her chances?” Fingers asked, voice lower. This hopelessness filled his eyes once more.
“I don’t know.” The ground beneath his feet felt like loose sand. He remembered the earthquake that rocked Gunya, the Capital of Qoth. He had been on the Sands of Truth, facing Taim, when it struck. The ground had flowed beneath him. Became untrustworthy. Now he felt like he could plummet into darkness at any moment. “She might never be the same even if she wakes up.”
“Elohm’s bright Colours,” breathed Fingers. He formed the prism before him, drawing it with his pointer digit.
“I didn’t know you were so close with her,” Ōbhin said. “You hardly say a word to her.”
“She reminds me of my wife, you know. That same headstrong stubbornness.” For a moment, a smile crossed Fingers’s lips. “What I like ‘bout Avena.”
“Does she ever write you back?” Ōbhin asked. “Your wife?”
Fingers shook his head. “Why should she?”
He was estranged from his wife. He blustered that she’d cheated on him with the miller, or sometimes the baker, but the older man had confessed he’d hurt her and fled, ashamed and afraid he’d do worse. He sent her money and wrote to her every payday.
“I loved her the moment I saw her, you know,” said Fingers. “It was a strikin’ moment. She weren’t from my village but from two over. Took a day’s walk to reach it. Don’t remember why I was even there, to be honest. It was the Feast of Auburn, and she were dancin’ ’round the Plenty Pillar with the other unmarried girls. I saw her, and she stole all the color from the world. They all flowed into her. The only bit of vibrancy left.”
Ōbhin shifted. He remembered the day he’d fallen in love with Foonauri. He’d been a boy of ten or so, playing when he’d spied on her wearing her maiden’s mask, hiding her face for the first time as she began the transition from child to adult. Realizing he’d never see her face again unless she loved him had struck Otsar’s passionate tone to resonate through his heart.
It had started Ōbhin down a road that led to murdering his rival for her and breaking his soul.
The first time he’d seen Avena, she’d been holding a knife in both hands, scared and yet standing up to the bandits—including Ōbhin—who’d been attacking her and Dualayn.
“You know what that’s like,” Fingers said.
“Yeah,” Ōbhin admitted. “I know.” He hated just standing here. There had to be something he could do.
I never should have taught her to fight.
Another voice whispered, That wouldn’t have stopped her from fighting.
“I courted her and married her,” Fingers continued. “I loved her more than life itself, but there were times when she just aggravated me. Made me angry.” Pain choked his voice. “I tried so blessed hard. I did. I never wanted to hurt her even when she infuriated me. And then one day, I couldn’t hold back. I hit her. Hard.” His eyes grew raw. “I fled. What else could I do? You know what it’s like to hurt someone you love? Not just emotionally, with words and shouts, but to physically do it? I couldn’t believe I was capable of it. I hope she’s happy. I know I complain ‘bout her, but sometimes I imagine she’s happy with the baker or the miller. With a man who don’t knock her to the ground. I’m a horrible man, Ōbhin. It festers in me. I keep sayin’ such terrible things ‘bout her. She made me so angry that day, but when I pretend it was her fault and